A Sky of Spells
Alistair collapsed, exhausted from the effort, and lay at Argon’s side, too weak to move.
She sensed movement, and she looked over and to her amazement saw Argon begin to stir.
He sat up and turned to her, his eyes shining with an intensity that scared her. He stared at her, expressionless, then reached over, grabbed his staff, and gained his feet. He reached out one hand, grabbed hers, and effortlessly yanked her to her feet.
As he held her hand, she felt all of her own energy restored.
“Where is he?” Argon asked.
Argon did not wait for an answer; it was as if he knew exactly where he needed to go, as he turned, staff at his side, walked right into the thick of battle.
Alistair couldn’t understand how Argon was not hesitant to stroll into the soldiers. Then she understood why: he was able to cast a magical bubble around him as he went, and as the undead charged him from all sides, none were able to penetrate it. Alistair stuck close to him as he marched fearlessly, harmlessly through the thick of the battle, as if strolling through a meadow on a sunny day.
The two of them made their way through the battlefield, and he kept silent, marching, dressed in his long white cloak and hood, walking so fast that Alistair could barely keep up.
He finally stopped at the center of the battle, in a clearing, opposite which stood Rafi. Rafi still stood there, holding both arms out at his sides, his eyes rolled back in his head as he summoned thousands of undead, pouring out of the crevice in the earth.
Argon raised a single palm high overhead, palm up, facing the sky, and opened his eyes wide.
“RAFI!” he screamed in challenge.
Despite all the noise, Argon’s scream cut through the battle, resonating off the hills.
As Argon shrieked, suddenly the clouds parted high above. A white stream of light came flying down, from the sky, right to Argon’s palm, as if connecting him to the very heavens. The stream of light grew wider and wider, like a tornado, enveloping the battlefield, enveloping everything around him.
There came a great wind and a great whooshing noise, and Alistair watched in disbelief as beneath her the ground began to shake even more violently, and the huge crevice in the earth began to move in the opposite direction, slowly sealing itself backup.
As it began to close on itself, dozens of undead shrieked, crushed as they tried to crawl out.
Within moments, hundreds of undead were slipping, sliding back down to the earth, as the crevice became more and more narrow.
The earth shook one last time, then grew quiet, as the crevice finally sealed itself, the ground whole again, as if no fissure had ever appeared. The awful shrieks of the undead filled the air, muted from beneath the earth.
There came a stunned silence, a momentary lull in battle, as everyone stood and watched.
Rafi shrieked and turned and set his sights on Argon.
“ARGON!” Rafi shrieked.
The time had come for the final clash of these two great titans.
Rafi ran into the open clearing, holding his red staff high, and Argon did not hesitate, racing out to greet Rafi.
The two met in the middle, each wielding their staffs high overhead. Rafi brought his staff down for Argon and Argon raised his and blocked it. A great white light arose, like sparks, as they met. Argon swung back, and Rafi blocked.
Back and forth they went, blow for blow, attacking, blocking, white light flying everywhere. The ground shook with each of their blows, and Alistair could feel a monumental energy in the air.
Finally, Argon found his opening, swinging his staff from underneath, upwards, and as he did, shattering Rafi’s staff.
The ground shook violently.
Argon stepped forward, raised his staff high overhead with two hands, and plunged it straight down, right through Rafi’s chest.
Rafi let out an awful shriek, thousands of small bats flying out of his mouth as his jaw remained wide open. The skies turned black for a moment, as thick black clouds gathered from the heavens, right over Rafi’s head, and swirled down to earth. They swallowed him whole, and Rafi howled as he spun through the air, yanked upwards, into the skies, heading up to some awful fate that Alistair did not want to imagine.
Argon stood there, breathing hard, as all finally fell silent, Rafi dead.
The army of undead shrieked, as one at a time, they all disintegrated before Argon’s eyes, each falling into a mound of ashes. Soon the battlefield was littered with thousands of mounds, all that remained of Rafi’s evil spells.
Alistair surveyed the battlefield and saw there was only one battle left to wage: across the clearing, her brother, Thorgrin, was already facing off with their father, Andronicus. She knew that in the battle to come, one of these determined men would lose their lives: her brother or her father. She prayed that it was her brother who came out alive.
Chapter Five
Luanda lay on the ground at Romulus’ feet, watching in horror as thousands of Empire soldiers flooded the bridge, screaming with triumph as they crossed into the Ring. They were invading her homeland, and there was nothing she could do but sit there, helpless, and watch, and wonder if it was somehow all her fault. She could not help but feel as if she was somehow responsible for the Shield’s lowering.
Luanda turned and looked out at the horizon, saw the endless Empire ships, and she knew that soon it would be millions of Empire troops flooding in. Her people were finished; the Ring was finished. It was all over now.
Luanda closed her eyes and shook her head, again and again. There was a time when she had been so angry with Gwendolyn, with her father, and would have been glad to witness the destruction of the Ring. But her mind had changed, ever since Andronicus’ betrayal and treatment of her, ever since his shaving her head, his beating her in front of his people. It made her realize how wrong, how naïve, she had been in her own quest for power. Now, she would give anything for her old life back. All she wanted now was a life of peace and contentment. She no longer craved ambition or power; now, she just wanted to survive, to make wrongs right.
But as she watched, Luanda realized it was too late. Now her beloved homeland was on its way to destruction, and there was nothing she could do.
Luanda heard an awful noise, laughter mixed with a snarl, and she looked up and saw Romulus standing there, hands on his hips, watching it all, a huge contended smile on his face, his long jagged teeth showing. He threw back his head and laughed and laughed, elated.
Luanda yearned to kill him; if she had a dagger in hand, she would run it through his heart. But knowing him, how thick he was built, how impervious he was to everything, the dagger probably wouldn’t even pierce it.
Romulus looked down at her, and his smile turned to a grimace.
“Now,” he said, “it’s time to kill you slowly.”
Luanda heard a distinctive clang and watched Romulus draw a weapon from his waist. It looked like a short sword, except tapered to a long narrow point. It was an evil weapon, one clearly designed for torture.
“You are going to suffer very, very much,” he said.
As he lowered his weapon, Luanda raised her hands to her face, as if to block it all out. She closed her eyes and shrieked.
That was when the strangest thing happened: as Luanda shrieked, her shriek was echoed by an even greater shriek. It was the shriek of an animal. A monster. A primordial roar, one louder and more resonant than anything she’d ever heard in her life. It was like thunder, tearing the skies apart.
Luanda opened her eyes and looked up to the heavens, wondering if she had imagined it. It sounded as if it had been the shriek of God himself.
Romulus, also stunned, looked up to the skies, baffled. By his expression, Luanda could tell that it had really happened; she had not imagined it.
It came again, a second shriek, even worse than the first, with such ferocity, such power, Luanda realized it could only be one thing:
A dragon.
As the skies parted, Luanda was awe-struck to watch two immense dragons soar overhead, the largest and scariest creatures she had ever seen, blotting out the sun, turning day to night as they cast a shadow over all of them.
Romulus’ weapon fell from his hands, his mouth open in shock. Clearly, he’d never witnessed anything quite like this, either, especially as the two dragons flew so low to the ground, barely twenty feet above their heads, nearly grazing their heads. Their great talents hung below them, and as they shrieked again, they arched their backs and spread open their wings.
At first, Luanda braced herself, as she assumed they were coming to kill her. But as she watched them fly, so fast overhead, as she felt the wind they left knock her over, she realized they were going elsewhere: over the Canyon. Into the Ring.
The dragons must have seen the soldiers crossing into the Ring and realized the Shield was down. They must have realized that this was their chance to enter the Ring, too.
Luanda watched, riveted, as one dragon suddenly opened its mouth, swooped down, and breathed a stream of fire onto the men on the bridge.
Screams of thousands of Empire soldiers arose, shrieking to the heavens as a great wall of fire engulfed them.
The dragons continued flying, breathing fire as they crossed the bridge, burning all of Romulus’ men. Then they continued to fly, into the Ring itself, continuing to breathe fire and to destroy every Empire man who’d entered, sending wave after wave of destruction.
Within moments, there were no Empire men left on the bridge, or on the mainland of the Ring.
The Empire men who were heading for the bridge, who were about to cross, stopped in their tracks. They dared not enter. Instead, they turned and fled, running back to the ships.
Romulus turned to watch his men leave, irate.
Luanda sat there, stunned, and realized this was her chance. Romulus was distracted, as he turned and chased after his men and tried to get them to head for the bridge. This was her moment.
Luanda jumped to her feet, her heart pounding, and turned and raced back for the bridge. She knew she had only a few precious moments; if she were lucky, maybe, just maybe, she could run long enough, before Romulus noticed, and make the other side. And if she could make the other side, maybe her reaching the mainland would help restore the Shield.
She had to try, and she knew it was now or never.
Luanda ran and ran, breathing so hard she could hardly think, her legs shaking. She stumbled on her feet, her legs heavy, her throat dry, flailing her arms as she went, the cold wind grazing her bald head.
She ran faster and faster, her heart pounding in her ears, the sound of her own breathing filling her world, as all became a narrow blur. She made it a good fifty yards across the bridge before she heard the first scream.
Romulus. Clearly, he had spotted her.
Behind her there suddenly came the sound of men charging on horseback, crossing the bridge, coming after her.
Luanda sprinted, increasing her pace, as she felt the men bearing down her. She ran past all the corpses of the Empire men, burnt by the dragons, some still flaming, doing her best to avoid them. Behind her, the horses grew even louder. She glanced back over her shoulder, saw their spears raised high and knew that this time Romulus aimed to have her killed. She knew that, in just moments, those spears would be thrust into her back.
Luanda looked forward and saw the Ring, the mainland, just feet in front of her. If only she could make it. Just ten more feet. If she could just cross the border, maybe, just maybe, the Shield would go back up and save her.
The men bore down on her as she took her final steps. The sound of horses was deafening in her ears, and she smelled the sweat of horses and of men. She braced herself, expecting a spear point to puncture her back at any moment. They were just feet away. But so was she.
In one final act of desperation, Luanda dove, just as she saw a soldier raise his hand with a spear behind her. She hit the ground with a tumble. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the spear sailing through the air, heading right for her.
Yet as soon as Luanda crossed the line, landed on the mainland of the Ring, suddenly, behind her, the Shield was activated again. The spear, inches behind her, disintegrated in mid-air. And behind it, all the soldiers on the bridge shrieked, raising their hands to their faces, as they all went up in flames, disintegrating.
In moments, they were all just piles of ashes.
On the far side of the bridge Romulus stood, watching it all. He shrieked and beat his chest. It was a cry of agony. A cry of someone who had been defeated. Outwitted.
Luanda lay there, breathing hard, in shock. She leaned down and kissed the soil she leaned on. Then she threw her head back and laughed in delight.
She had made it. She was safe.
Chapter Six
Thorgrin stood in the open clearing, facing Andronicus, surrounded by both armies. They stood at a standstill, watching as father and son faced off once again. Andronicus stood there in all his glory, towering over Thor, wielding a huge axe in one hand and a sword in the other. As Thor faced him, he forced himself to breathe slow and deep, to control his emotions. Thor had to remain clear-minded, to focus as he fought this man, the same way he would any other enemy. He had to tell himself that he was not facing his father, but his worst foe. The man who had hurt Gwendolyn; the man who had hurt all of his countrymen; the man who had brainwashed him. The man who deserved to die.
With Rafi dead, Argon back in control, all the undead creatures back beneath the earth, there was no more delaying this final confrontation, Andronicus’ facing off with Thorgrin. It was the battle that must determine the fate of the war. Thor would not let him get away, not this time, and Andronicus, cornered in, finally seemed willing to face off with his son.
“Thornicus, you are my son,” Andronicus said, his low voice reverberating. “I do not wish to harm you.”
“But I wish to harm you,” Thor replied, refusing to give in to Andronicus’ mind games.
“Thornicus, my son,” Andronicus repeated, as Thor took a wary step closer, “I do not wish to kill you. Lay down your weapons and join me. Join me as you had before. You are my son. You are not their son. You carry my bloodline; you do not carry theirs. My homeland is your homeland; the Ring is but an adopted place for you. You are my people. These people mean nothing to you. Come home. Come back to the Empire. Allow me to be the father you always wanted. And become the son I always wanted you to be.
“I will not fight you,” Andronicus said finally, as he lowered his axe.
Thor had heard enough. He had to make a move now, before he allowed his mind to be swayed by this monster.
Thor let out a battle cry, raised sword high and charged forward, bringing it down with both hands for Andronicus’ head.
Andronicus stared back in surprise, then at the last second, he reached down, grabbed his axe from the ground, raised it and blocked Thor’s blow.
Sparks flew off of Thor’s sword as the two of them locked weapons, inches away, each groaning, as Andronicus held back Thor’s blow.
“Thornicus,” Andronicus grunted, “your strength is great. But it is my strength. I gave you this. My blood runs in your veins. Stop this madness, and join me!”
Andronicus pushed Thor back, and Thor stumbled backwards.
“Never!” Thor screamed, defiant. “I will never return to you. You are no father to me. You are a stranger. You don’t deserve to be my father!”
Thor charged again, screaming, and brought his sword down. Andronicus blocked it, and Thor, expecting it, quickly spun around with his sword and slashed Andronicus’ arm.
Andronicus cried out as blood squirted from his wound. He stumbled back and looked Thor over with disbelief, reaching over and touching his wound, then examining the blood on his hand.
“You mean to kill me,” Andronicus said, as if realizing for the first time. “After all I’ve done for you.”
“I most certainly do,” Thorgrin said.
Andronicus studied him, as if studying a new person, and soon his look changed from one of wonder and disappointment, to one of anger.
“Then you are no son of mine!” he screamed. “The Great Andronicus does not ask twice!”
Andronicus threw down his sword, raised his battle axe with both hands, let out a great cry and charged for Thor. Finally, the battle had begun.
Thor raised his sword to block the blow, but it came down with such force that, to Thor’s shock, it shattered Thor’s sword, breaking it in two.
Thor quickly improvised, dodging out of the way as the blow continued to come down; it just grazed him, missing by an inch, so close he could feel the wind brush his shoulder. His father had tremendous strength, greater than any warrior he’d ever faced, and Thor knew this would not be easy. His father was fast, too – a deadly combination. And now Thor had no weapon.
Andronicus swung around again without hesitating, swinging sideways, aiming to chop Thor in half.
Thor leapt into the air, high over Andronicus his head, doing a somersault, using his inner powers to propel him, to bring him high in the air and land behind Andronicus. He landed on his feet, reached down and grabbed his father’s sword from the ground, spun around and charged, swinging for Andronicus’ back.
But to Thor’s surprise, Andronicus was so fast, he was prepared. He spun around and blocked the blow. Thor felt the impact of metal hitting metal reverberate throughout his body. Andronicus’ sword, at least, held; it was stronger than his. It was strange, to hold his father’s sword – especially when facing his father.
Thor swung around, and came down sideways for Andronicus’ shoulder. Andronicus blocked, and came down for Thor’s.
Back and forth they went, attacking and blocking, Thor driving Andronicus back, and Andronicus, in turn, pushing Thor back. Sparks flew, the weapons moving so fast, gleaming in the light, their great clangs riveting the battlefield, the two armies watching, transfixed. The two great warriors pushed each other back and forth across the open clearing, neither gaining an inch.
Thor raised his sword to strike again, but this time Andronicus surprised him by stepping forward and kicking him in the chest. Thor went flying backwards, landing on his back.
Andronicus rushed forward and brought down his axe. Thor rolled out of the way, but not quickly enough: it sliced Thor’s bicep, just enough to draw blood. Thor cried out, but nonetheless, swung around, and swung his sword and sliced Andronicus’ calf.
Andronicus stumbled and cried out, and Thor rolled back to his feet, as the two faced each other, each wounded.
“I’m stronger than you, son,” Andronicus said. “And more experienced in battle. Give in now. Your Druid powers will not work against me. It is just me against you, man to man, sword to sword. And as a warrior, I am better. You know this. Yield to me, and I shall not kill you.”
Thor scowled.
“I yield to no one! Least of all you!”
Thor forced himself to think of Gwendolyn, of what Andronicus had done to her, and his rage intensified. Now was the time. Thor was determined to finish Andronicus off, once and for all, to send this awful creature back to hell.
Thor charged with a final burst of strength, giving it all he had, letting out a great cry. He brought his sword down left and right, swinging so fast he could barely contain it, Andronicus blocking each one, even as he was pushed back, step by step. The fighting went on and on, and Andronicus seemed surprised that his son could exhibit such strength, and for so long.
Thor found his moment of opportunity when, for a moment, Andronicus’ arms grew tired. Thor swung for his axe head and connected, and managed to knock the blade from Andronicus’ hands. Andronicus watched it fly through the air, shocked, and Thor then kicked his father in the chest, knocking him down, flat on his back.
Before he could rise, Thor stepped forward and placed a foot on his throat. Thor had him pinned, and he stood there, looking down at him.
The entire battlefield was riveted as Thor stood over him, holding the tip of his sword to his father’s throat.
Andronicus, blood seeping from his mouth, smiled between his fangs.
“You cannot do it, son,” he said. “That is your great weakness. Your love for me. Just like my weakness for you. I could never bring myself to kill you. Not now, not your entire life. This entire battle is futility. You will let me go. Because you and I are one.”
Thor stood over him, hands shaking as he held the sword tip at his father’s throat. Slowly, he raised it. A part of him felt his father’s words to be true. How could he bring himself to kill his father?
But as he stared down, he considered all the pain, all the damage, his father had inflicted on everyone around him. He considered the price of letting him live. The price of compassion. It was too great a price to pay, not just for Thorgrin, but for everyone he loved and cared about. Thor glanced behind him and saw the tens of thousands of Empire soldiers whom had invaded his homeland, standing there, ready to attack his people. And this man was their leader. Thor owed it to his homeland. To Gwendolyn. And most of all, to himself. This man might be his father by blood, but that was all. He was not his father in any other sense of the word. And blood alone did not make a father.
Thor raised his sword high, and with a great cry, he swung it down.
Thor closed his eyes, and opened them to see the sword, embedded in the soil, right beside Andronicus’ head. Thor left it there and stepped back.
His father had been right: he had been unable to do it. Despite everything, he just could not bring himself to kill a defenseless man.
Thor turned his back on his father, facing his own people, facing Gwendolyn. Clearly he had won the battle; he had made his point. Now, Andronicus, if he had any honor, would have no choice but to return home.
“THORGRIN!” Gwendolyn screamed.
Thor turned to see, with shock, Andronicus’s axe swinging at him, coming right for his head. Thor ducked at the last second, and the axe flew by.
Andronicus was fast, though, and in the same motion he swung back around with his gauntlet and backhanded Thor across the jaw, knocking him down to his hands and knees.
Thor felt an awful cracking in his ribs, as Andronicus’ boot kicked him in the stomach, sending him rolling, gasping for air.
Thor lay on his hands and knees, breathing hard, blood dripping from his mouth, his ribs killing him, trying to muster the strength to get up. Out of the corner of his eye he watched Andronicus step forward, smile wide, and raise his axe high with both hands. He was aiming, Thor could see, to chop off Thor’s head. Thor could see it in his bloodshot eyes that Andronicus would have no mercy, as Thor had had.
“This is what I should have done thirty years ago,” Andronicus said.
Andronicus let out a great scream, as he brought his axe down for Thor’s exposed neck.
Thor, though, was not done fighting; he managed one last burst of energy, and despite all his pain, he scrambled to his feet and charged his father, tackling him around the ribs, driving him backwards, onto the ground, on his back.
Thor lay on top of him, wrestling him down, preparing to fight him with his bare hands. It had become a wrestling match. Andronicus reached up and grabbed Thor’s throat, and Thor was surprised by his strength; he felt himself losing air quickly as he was choked.
Thor grasped at his waist, desperate, searching for his dagger. The royal dagger, the one King MacGil had given him, before he died. Thor was losing air fast, and he knew if he didn’t find it soon, he’d be dead.
Thor found it with his last breath. He raised it high, and plunged it down with both hands, into Andronicus’ chest.
Andronicus shot up, gasping for air, eyes bulging in a death stare, as he sat up and continued to choke his son.
Thor, out of breath, was seeing stars, going limp.
Finally, slowly, Andronicus’ grip released, as his arms fell to his side. His eyes rolled sideways, and he stopped moving.